


Wreckage

by astral_acatalepsy



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Drarry, F/M, Gay, M/M, Pride, bxb - Freeform, gay relationships, mlm, relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-05
Updated: 2018-11-05
Packaged: 2019-08-18 20:18:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16523927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astral_acatalepsy/pseuds/astral_acatalepsy
Summary: Harry Potter, now the Head Auror of the ministry, is faced with a Voldemort-style copycat, a mask-bearing individual by the name of Fylum LaSciou. With LaSciou's true identity revealed, troubled waters rise between Harry and his fiancé, Draco Malfoy. Draco's allegiance to the side of good falters, bringing back the darkness that runs in his bloodline. Between a terrorist on the loose and his fiancé refusing to wear the ring, he's left incredibly overwhelmed, and even worse is the correlation between the events.





	Wreckage

**Author's Note:**

> Word Count: 10,247  
> Trigger Warning(s): Anxiety attacks, homophobia, light swearing, general angst

Harry was sprawled across the seat, his arm resting on the back and his spine to the wall. He had slipped his fedora over his face, giving him the appearance of a plain man wanting nothing more than a bit of shut-eye during his travels. However, his pupils raced inside the hat, reviewing his plan over and over. The ministry had sent him on a solo mission, seeing as for one he was the head auror, and second they were low staffed ever since the Norwegian Ridgeback incident. 'Tragic', he thought to himself, knowledge flashing across his mind that several of his coworkers were burnt to a crisp or labeled 'dinner' for the dragon. However, after his years at Hogwarts with yearly deaths and his job, he had grown to be a hardened soul, only truly bothered by those he felt close to. He felt bad that his empathy had faded over the years, but as it was a subconscious defense mechanism, there was nothing he could do.

Harry was sent out to be a passenger on a train rumored to be threatened by Fylum LaSciou, a copycat wizarding terrorist of the once-prominent Lord Voldemort. Over the past few months, Harry was tasked with tracking his every recorded move, as few and far as the were. He had studied everything about him, down to the origins of his chosen name. Fylum, obviously derived from Latin's 'Phylum', meaning division. He had suspected this was due to the persistence in the objective of separation of wizard from muggle, although also likely inspired by the Dark Lord's chosen name 'Voldemort', the French translation of 'Flight of Death'.

Mentally, he had reviewed the timeline of troubles LaSciou had stirred up toward the ministry and its people. It was obvious it was a Voldemort copycat when the morsmordre charm was cast, the traditional mark of Voldemort and his followers plastered in the sky. Many had believed he was back, but Harry knew he was long gone. His scar hasn't bothered him since the war, and not only that, but the cut itself was fading. It was when the first sighting was caught that it was in fact a new party. They had stood in a circle around the leader, easily told apart by the more extravagant mask and the orders he was barking. Voldemort would have never granted such high of a position to anyone but himself, and besides, he was dead. The people reasoned that 'he was dead once and he came back', and it took quite of bit of personal reasoning from Harry to create an effect on others, although it was time consuming. Many had turned against him for a while just as they had before when they thought he put his name into the goblet of fire, when they didn't believe he had used the patronus charm to defend against dementors, and time and time again as the struggle pursued. However, they grew to agree with him after a while, but within that while a house in Godric's Hollow was attacked. The house in Godric's Hollow. The one that belonged to the Potters decades before. It had held a sense of home to a family of three, a young married couple in their twenties and their child. However, family would be a false word for them. The father was an alcoholic and the mother had someone on the side, leaving space for neglect for the child. When LaSciou had made his way to the nursery, he had been able to kill the child, not enough love to protect the kid. This is when all had lost hope. There was not another Harry Potter to save the world, only the original. Furthermore, it was a family of purebloods; a crime of obsession, not hate. Continuing on, abductions were common. Unfortunately, there were many attacks on people of impure blood status, a few on the purebloods that had defied Voldemort himself.

It was obvious that LaSciou was a former death eater, his obsession with the Dark Lord uncanny. All death eaters were sentenced to 20 years in Azkaban, and for those strong enough to keep their will to live, they had been released just before the happenings. Even 20 years after his death, it was clear the fight against Voldemort was far from over with his 'influential' ideas.

It was that exact moment that the train's lights flashed to dark, a slow hum running to a stop as the power was turned out. The train that just a second before was moving steadily along the countryside had halted immediately, throwing Harry from the seat. He stumbled to his feet in the aisle, patting himself down to find his wand. Earlier, he had transfigured it into a pen—yes, his breast pocket. However, as he reached for it he found nothing but lint. It must have flown from the pocket when he was thrown around due to the train stopping on an instant. His gaze covered the entirety of the floor before him, but his search was cut off when the heavy metal door was bust in, snapping off the hinges and falling to the ground.

Making a grand entrance, a cloaked and masked figure that stood at almost 2 meters with help from large, black leather boots seemed to gracefully waltz into the car. Harry was alone in the car, so the piercing eyes of the man were on him.

"Potter," the man drawled in a sinister tone. He had been recognized, and all too easily. He had done his best to avoid having his picture taken by the press since he was young, it was no doubt he knew the man behind the mask. His silver eyes were chilling, and so incredibly familiar. They had aged, but nonetheless were the same as they were before. 

"Fylum LaSciou, my ass. There's no hiding who you really are," Harry seethed, a sharp glare penetrating what little of a soul the man had. 

Fear grew overwhelmingly in the eyes of the man before him. He'd been figured out.

The gaze shifted from fear to a poker face of a glare. The same glare he received back in second year in the bookshop, after escaping the chamber of secrets, the same one he's seen again and again throughout the years; aged, yet not dull. "Lucius Malfoy," Harry stated, his voice rich with confidence, despite his voice quavering. 

     The tall figure of Lucius stamped forward, whipping out his wand from within his robes and pointing it directly at Harry's throat, jabbing at it for effect. Harry, still wandless, filled with rage. Hate. Hate from the abuse toward his Fiancé. Hate. Hate from the cruelty to his only family, the Weasleys. Hate. Hate from his allegiance and aid to his own enemy. Hate. Hate from his second-in-command rule at the manor. Hate.

     Power from hate. Power. 

     Time stopped for a moment, green sparks dancing around the car. The piercing eyes that had been locked with his just moments before grew wide. Filled with shock, Lucius was left unable to defend himself. The green rays circulated around him, whipping around like a tornado at the command that was just uttered: avada kedavra.

     Harry was left with an expression of childlike surprise; as if he were of only 7, making an attempt to steal a cookie from the cookie jar, and getting away with it. However, this moment was just a little more life-altering than a stolen cookie.

     The green light faded to nothing but an aura, and afterthought. And with the light the man before him faded into transparency, falling to the floor as he did so. Soon, there was nothing but a heap of black material and on top, a silver mask, once a symbol of loyalty to a dark force, now the identification of the sole prominence of the newest dark force.

     His breath caught in his throat, stirring up a raw, gravelly cough of shock. His corneas overflowed with terror, his fear left in the physical form of the liquid pouring from his tear ducts. Hesitantly so, he knelt down and looked beneath the booth table, in a trance-like state until the flash of silver revealed his pen, specifically, his wand transfigured into a pen. He tucked it back into his breast pocket, his jaw still hanging loose from his skull in the shape of an imperfect 'O'.

He had killed him, and it had all seemed too easy. That curse required an incredible amount of emotion-driven power; impossible for many without true reason and a thirst for an end to existence. Furthermore, he had done so without his wand. Wandless magic is difficult territory on its own, but the most complicated spell yet to be created?

His gaze turned down to his hands. They were shaking out of control, seeming to fiddle around with whatever available. Harry turned his wedding ring round his finger to calm himself down, the gilded band bringing a sensation of comfort and calmness.

Carried by the wind was the scent of fresh baguettes, a collective identity of Paris alone. Left, right, up, and down, Paris had the aura of a bakery. Was it a stereotype? Of course, but accurate, it also proved to be. Amongst the sky, Draco had stood huddled against Harry's side, Harry's arm comfortably draped around his lumbar. Draco, although a proud five centimeters taller than Harry, had managed to lean his head into a relaxed position onto Harry's shoulder. The sweet yet crisp, bitter wind nipped at any who hadn't taken shelter inside, or rather just as well anyone who hadn't cast a warming charm. The happy couple leaned against the railing of the Eiffel Tower, gazing off into the city as colorful sparks whizzed into the air, bursting into bright geometrics to paint the dark canvas of the midnight sky.

     "Uh, Harry—" Draco stuttered, his teeth tugging at his bottom lip.

     Harry's mind, although distant, snapped back and his stare fluttered from the fireworks shakily before they rested in the coexistent gaze of his boyfriend. "Oh, yes? Cold, are we?"

     Draco shook his head, anxiety radiating from him. His fingers fumbled around in his coat pocket, grabbing hold of a small, black velvet box. Pausing, he shrugged. "Well, I suppose maybe the cold is getting to me. I can't seem to recall your last name."

     "Love, I believe that would be the bubbly, not the temperature. But for the record, it's Potter," he answered disappointedly. He rolled his eyes at the tipsy behavior of the other, but shrugged it off. 

     "Potter, Potter..." Draco had repeated, the name falling off his tongue pleasantly. "What a wonderful surname. Perhaps it's about time to change mine to match yours." His lips tugged into a playful smirk as he knelt onto one knee. His lopsided smile faltered for a moment as he fumbled trying to open the ring box. It had been in a less-than-graceful manner in which he had tried to present the ring, earning a blank stare from Harry.

"You're nervous," Harry stated. Draco's eyes widened in fear and his lips parted as if he were going to attempt a rebuttal, but Harry had continued on before the chance arose. "You had better stop that because Potters are never outwardly nervous. Wouldn't want to ruin our reputation, would you?"

A ray of hope gleamed through Draco's soul. "Is that a yes?"

Grabbing him by the hands and pulling him up to meet his height, he pulled him into a kiss. "Of course, you absolute tosser," he grinned, pulling away ever-so-slightly.

Harry could do anything but focus on the mission at hand. Alternatively, he could only think about the mission on his hand; the ring. However, the ring rose a question; how would Draco react?

Unknown to Harry, the silhouette of a face was pressed to the window of the car door. Their eyes filled with fear, the figure darted into the locomotive, the train roaring to a start, beginning to chug faster and faster along the tracks. With a change of plans, the most beneficial outcome for the followers of Lucius would be to crash the train and deal with whatever casualties they suffered. They couldn't turn back on the mission; it had to be done.

Figuring the train had gone back to normal as scheduled, he took a seat back in his place in the booth. It wasn't until they truly started gaining speed that concern—just as steadily as the growing rate of the train's speed—had flooded Harry's heart.

But no matter. It was too late.

The train seemed to jump off the steel rails, the entire car tilting sideways. It seemed to happen in slow motion; Harry's trunk free falling as he was thrown from his seat. The beat up, worn leather luggage case came closer and closer, threatening him. It didn't take long as it hit his head, making his vision blur and fade to black. 

     Groggily, Harry's eyes fluttered open into a squint, the bright light of day rushing in through the window to infiltrate his eyelids, soft chatter echoing through St. Mungo's. He stirred slightly to notice a familiar figure curled up beside him, messy strands of platinum blonde resting on his chest. A small smile of comfort made its way to Harry's lips, running his fingers through the mop of hair before him. The steady breathing he felt from his fiancé  just a moment before turned into the long draw of an intaken breath. Barely shifting, the words "Welcome back, love," came from the mouth of the newly-awoken man. 

     Draco sat up in one swift, graceful motion, staring at Harry's shapely yet battered face before leaning in to give him a gentle kiss on the lips. It was barely more than a peck, but it spoke of 'I missed you', drawing the words out into the length of an eternity. 

     Draco seemed calm and composed, but less than three hours ago he had been rampaging the nurses station demanding the best treatment for Harry, just as he had for the past three days on the top of the hour without fail. Little known to Draco the nurses opted to spike his provided meals with a calming potion, and by the looks of it it had worked well enough. Draco had laid back down on his side, using the arm underneath him as a pillow and the other resting gently on Harry's chest; simply to feel his presence. To feel the rising and falling of his breathing, to feel his heartbeat, to be a part of his soul.

     "It's been too quiet without you, Potter, I can actually hear my own thoughts. I forgot I had them in the first place since I've been with you. Dangerous, you not being around," Draco teased him, playfully tapping his fingers against his chest.

     "I'm not sure what I'm more afraid of; your dangerous ideas or the fact I'll have to listen to you drone on forever to make up for the time I was in the coma, Potter-soon-to-be." His mouth tugged into a playful smirk. 

     With a peck on the cheek, Draco's spirits lifted enough to manage a soft giggle. "You'll never hear the end of it."

It was dawn the next day before Draco had managed to get Harry out of St. Mungo's. It had required quite a bit of false flirting, but Draco was pushing Harry out of the building in a wheelchair out to their car, the one they had bought together to establish the feeling that they had dual-citizenship in the wizarding and muggle worlds. Draco had assumed with Harry's coma it was best to avoid apparation for the time being. It was on their drive back to their flat that they passed the train station, and with the sight of a steam engine tearing away from the building along the tracks, Harry's eyes grew wide and he swore he could feel his heart stop for a moment. He had snapped as panic coursed through his veins. "It has to be stopped," he whispered in monotone as the natural deep tan of his skin paled to ash. 

     Thankfully, Draco had slowed for the stoplight. Harry clicked his seatbelt open and threw open the door, stumbling out of the car and ripping off into a sprint. Draco slammed the car to a stop and flipped on the hazard lights, flinging himself out the door and chasing after Harry. His long legs proved to be a blessing as he pounded after him, able to catch up. As he came up behind Harry, he threw his arms around him and pulled him back towards himself, clinging onto him as Harry, in a daze, flailed wildly, screaming. 

     "Kill! Kill! Kill!" He screeched, his eyes glossed over yet pouring out heavy tears. He was completely lost in his own world.

     It caused Draco pain to see Harry struggling so much. He ran his fingers through his hair, wiping the strands from his face. He pulled him close, gently caressing his back as he whispered softly in hopes Harry would come back to earth. Soon enough, Harry's screams turned into sobs and he clutched Draco's shirt in his fist, bawling into his chest hysterically. "He- He- He- no, I killed-" he gasped between cries. Draco helped him to the ground, Harry in his lap and curling up against him. Draco hushed him to calm him down, pecking his forehead.

At the harsh threats of car horns, he once again pecked his forehead. "Let's get you home," he whispered gently, helping Harry up and to the car.

     Harry's gaze lay beyond the streetlight diagonally out his kitchen window, beyond the market, beyond the earth even. His eyes were left in a distant void, alongside his mind and the rest of him. He had been home for half a week now, no incident except the one on the way home had become an impediment to everyday life. He had been granted two weeks leave for recovery, and it was already mostly spent staring off into space, seemingly beyond into another dimension.

It was when Draco stealthily snuck up behind him and hugged him from behind that Harry was snapped back to reality. Normally, the way Draco kissed his cheek and nuzzled into his neck would have been a sweet, normal gesture, but it just deepened the pit of guilt Harry held in his gut. 

Harry cleared his throat. It was dry and raspy, rather rough around the edges from lack of use. He had been nearly mute since he returned home, but that didn't stop the screaming inside his mind. Three killed, eleven in critical condition, twenty four with minor injuries. Beyond that, the followers had escaped. However, he killed Fylum LaSciou, the occupant of the highest seat on the ministry's most wanted list. Despite these faults, his biggest concern was that he followed orders to kill Fylum, which in theory was beneficial, but the father of his fiancé. He felt as though he betrayed Draco, even though the father-son relationship was lacking. 

"Draco—" Harry squeaked, barely audible.

"Yes, love?" Draco acknowledged, resting his chin on Harry's shoulder.

"Have you talked to your father lately?" Harry tended up as he asked the question, sharply inhaling.

     Draco swiftly shifted around him and leaned against the counter, his hand resting gently on the hand Harry had planted against the granite. "I haven't talked to him since before his Azkaban sentence, why?"

     "Well, I figure maybe it's about time you talk to him. I mean, he is your father, after all," Harry shrugged, a slice of hope inside of him thinking Lucius was still alive. Harry wasn't truly that powerful, was he? He hoped that he wasn't; he had always wished he wasn't dark enough to cast the killing curse, and  
wandless—there had to be no chance, right?

     "I've told you about what he did to mum and I, and you experienced first hand how he could be toward anyone. He's ruthless. Unless he's dying, I don't want to hear it," Draco snapped, regaining himself after a moment and apologizing, his face softening.

     It was in that moment that Harry collapsed to the floor in relief and fear all at once; Draco's harshness toward his father was a relief, knowing he might not take the news as badly yet his choice of words with 'unless he's dying' dampened his mood. He scurried himself back against the cupboard, his knees tucked to his chest and his face buried in his arms. Curled up like a child, he bawled silently. Gently, Draco lowered himself to Harry's level, kneeling down onto the wooden floorboards. He lay a gentle hand on Harry's shaking shoulder to comfort him, murmuring things like 'it'll be alright'. He wasn't sure what had happened or what he had said, but that was a question for later. 

Harry whimpered softly, trying to make his words understandable, but it was simply gibberish. Collecting himself, he looked at Draco with pained eyes. "I killed—I killed him. Your father. He's—He's dead." Harry madly rubbed his hands, as if he was trying to wash away the blood. The absence of the physical evidence left a deeper pit of guilt growling in his gut.

Draco was ultimately shocked, but as the words sank in like the teeth of an inescapable fate biting into his skin, he slowly rose from the floor, his teeth clenched. "You... did... what?!" He seethed, his silver eyes piercing Harry's soul, sending Harry spiraling into flashbacks of the moments before the fatal curse. "You did what?!" He repeated, his anger spilling over the edge. Despite a deep hatred for his father, the lack of a picturesque family structure left him with a longing for such, so with forgetting whatever he had, he was furious over the fact it had only gotten more complicated, a tangled knot of yarn.

With Harry unresponsive, Draco turned on his heel and stamped to their room, throwing his most important belongings into a trunk. The lights seemed to flicker as Draco grew more and more unstable. Tie after tie, blazer after blazer were thrown in the case. When he reached for the cologne on his dresser, a glint of shining gold emitted from his finger. His engagement band. He slid it off and threw it to the floor, stepping on it with the sole of his shoe and twisting it into the wood floor, leaving a permanent circle indentation. 

All with the thud of a door, Harry knew he was gone.

     Draco stood with his shoulders back and his head high, wanting to seem strong for his mother who lay just beyond the gloomy door before him. Intricate designs of serpents were chiseled into the door, the entire thing painted black. The silver-encrusted doorknob turned, a promising figure certain to be behind it.

     "Moth-" was all Draco could manage before he recognized the figure standing in front of him as none other than Lucius Malfoy, his father. Draco gulped, his Adam's apple bobbing in fear.

"Daddy's home," Lucius hissed in a sinister tone. "Surprised?" The corners of his lips tugged upward into a sickening smile, one that, had Draco been familiar with muggle Christmas traditions, would have resembled that of the Grinch from the cartoon.

Perhaps it was the absence in his eyes, equally just as likely the way he swayed gently side to side as if he'd gone mad. Maybe the way his nose twitched as he grinned, or even the jagged scars lining any bit of skin visible. His once long, luscious hair was left choppy and with balding spots; crow's feet now adjacent to his glossed-over eyes. Yet of all these things that concerned him, the worst of them all was his voice. Once deep and drawling, it had become unsteady, squeaky with the pronunciation of every 'y'.

Before, he had been powerful and ruthless, now he had turned completely insane, unaware of his actions or thoughts alone. That was the worst of it. Draco almost felt pity for him, he knew his father would be having no choice in himself from whatever turning point in Azkaban made him this way until the end of his life. 

Lucius' expression switched from evilly joyful to concern in half a moment. "Why, come in, come in," he cooed, gesturing for Draco to follow him.

Lucius dragged his cane along the tile floors; he felt no use in it, but simply dragged it along like a reluctant dog on a leash. He would tap his middle and index finger on the silver handle, tracing the serpent's head. Without turning back to look at Draco, his voice sounded with a tone of wonder. "Shall I assume the rumors are false? I suppose that would be for the best. Word spreads fast, even around places as constricted as Azkaban. I will continue to believe that my son never had  
any—" Lucius paused, as if to find the word. He turned on his heel, causing Draco to stop immediately in his tracks to avoid a collision. "—Relations with Mr. Harry Potter. I can only imagine how I'd react if you told me otherwise. I'm not sure what part of the situation would be worse, you tarnishing our name with a filthy half-breed, fraternizing with the enemy, or the fact that that would make you a homosexual," he sneered, his eyes filled with a fiery rage that screamed of madness.

"No—No sir—I mean, father. Not at all," he whimpered.

"Good, because I suppose there's something even worse than the rest. You'd be with the man who tried to kill your dear, old dad." He squinted, his head tilting to the side. "You wouldn't want to betray me like that, would you?"

     Frantically, Draco shook his head. "Of course not." The words poured out of his mouth quickly as he was invaded by fear. He had no clue what his father would do if he was honest, but no matter what, the rumor wasn't true anymore.

     "Good. He's a foul murderer who has the world in the palm of his hand—no, dangling from the tip of his finger. He's doesn't care about the effect it has on people he cares about." Draco knew at that point that his father knew very well about his relationship, but Draco had pledged his allegiance. It was no longer a source of worry. "He tried to kill me, just because he thought I was Fylum LaSciou," he drawled, as if telling a story.

     "And you aren't?" Draco questioned, raising a brow I'm curiosity. 

     "You dare question me, boy?" Lucius growled. His teeth, now yellowed and a bit out of place, flashed aggressively as if he were a dog with its hackles up, ready to attack. 

     Draco was shaken at his snapping of a response. "No, no, just clarification," he stuttered, stumbling on his feet as they continued through the manor. 

     Lucius sighed, his demeanor fading to a calm sadness. "He's wicked, that man is." He led them to all-too familiar double doors. "I believe you'll find yourself at home, just as you did when you were younger," Lucius monotoned. With the heel of his right foot, he kicked the doors open, not bothering to use the handle. "I'll see you at dinner. Your mother is at the market getting vegetables." At that, Lucius turned on his heel and stalked down the hall.

     Draco looked around the room, his gaze floating up to the familiar chandelier, the one hung above his bed that he would stare at for hours when he found it difficult to sleep. He slowly waltzed into his room, dragging his fingers along the ornate, dark-wood furniture lining the walls. He made his way to stand before the tall, arched window, tracing the gilded diamond pattern that held the glass pieces together.

     Home. Not just a house; home.

     In all his time, Harry had only had one friend that had always understood him; a friendship without quarrel, without disloyalty. He sauntered up to the lavender-painted cottage before him, his hands stuffed in his pockets. He rapped gently on the oak of the door, waiting just a few moments before it was opened by Neville. "Hey, mate," he greeted with a false yet gentle smile. The great pretender, he thought of himself. It wasn't anything personal toward Neville, but he just didn't have enough joy nor energy for a real grin.

"Oi! How's it going?" Neville cheered, not seeing through Harry's masquerade.

He couldn't keep up with Neville's energy; he merely shrugged. "Just looking for wise words."

"Ah." Neville nodded. "Lu's in back with Gerry," he gave him a sympathetic smile and patted him on the back as Harry walked through the doorway, past what seemed to be a maze of potted plants, and gazed through the screen to see Luna in a robin's egg blue sundress, holding baby Gerry on her hip as she enchanted geraniums to dance around through the air, causing the baby to giggle. He gently pushed the door open and a rustic bell rang up above, alerting Luna.

"Hello, Harry," Luna greeted, not needing to turn around to see who it was. Harry didn't bother questioning her knowledge anymore, it was her own little secret. "Geranium welcomes you as well," she translated as the baby girl made a string of noises that otherwise sounded to be gibberish. She traced her finger through the air, and the flowers followed the trail. She swirled her finger in the form of a tight circle, the flowers seeming to pull themselves together into a mat on the grass. She snapped her fingers and her hair weaved itself into a fishtail braid, a few extra flowers flying to tuck themselves into her hair as she finally turned to look at Harry. "Sit," she offered, gesturing to the flower patch that served a similar purpose to a picnic blanket.

     "Majestic and graceful as always," Harry complimented her, a slight grin appearing on his face. Genuine.

     "I suppose I just want Geranium to grow up seeing the beauty of the world," she spoke airily, setting the almost-toddler onto the flower blanket before sitting down, herself. "What's troubling you?"

     "It's a bit difficult to put into words," he began only to be interrelated by Luna.

     Luna reached out her hand as an invitation. "Do you mind?" Her eyebrows pursed together in concern. Harry gave her an approving smile and gave her his hand. She had legilimency powers, but they were most effective if she had direct contact. She stared directly into his eyes, a firm wrinkle of sadness and confusion appearing on her glabella. "That is troubling," she said softly, her eyes unblinking and unmoving, locked on Harry. "I can't exactly say I'm surprised that you didn't come earlier," she spoke, dropping his hand to grab Gerry and sit her in her lap. "Your trait of stubbornness has always been rather strong, but I assure you that you're always welcome." Harry nodded in response. "Oh, I see, you're looking for some advice. It truly is an odd situation," she sighed, pausing and staring at the bumblebee sitting on one of her daffodils. 

     "According to all known laws of aviation, there is no way a bee should be able to fly. Its wings are too small to get its fat little body off the ground. The bee, of course, flies anyway, because bees don't care what humans think is impossible," Luna thought aloud. Turning back to Harry to do another mental reading, she squinted at him. "You think the situation is impossible due to outside circumstances beyond your control. You're being ordered to kill the father of your fiancé, oh, sorry, I see that term is a bit sore. You feel guilty because you know you'll either let down the one you love most or the entire wizarding world. You simply need to ignore the value you're placing on other's evaluations of your actions. Look inside your heart and do what you need to do. Whether he'll admit it or not right now, Draco loves you. He'll see your reasoning as to whatever you choose and it won't change his heart."

Hermione had once compared Luna to the idea of a third-person omniscient narrator of a novel. She had a tendency to think outside of the box and consider all perspectives, something that was rare to come by. Harry didn't understand the first term she used, but he eventually understood it as similar to an almighty, all-knowing being. Harry couldn't help but agree. It was astounding how well her name fit her, Luna, after the moon. Watching down on earth from an alternate perspective.

"That—" he began, not sure how to continue. "Thanks, Luna," he grinned before dismissing himself by giving Luna a friendly peck on the cheek and one on the forehead to Gerry. He gave a silly wave to the child; he was proud to be her godfather. It wasn't long before he had raced off through the house, offering to get drinks with Neville on an upcoming weekend, and drove off in his car to his flat, feeling much more satisfied than when he had arrived at the cottage. Keys on the side-table, shoes by the door, Harry threw himself on the couch and sat, utterly relaxed and calm. 

     Draco sat at his desk with his quill in hand, a piece of parchment lying on the tabletop.

     'My love,' he addressed it out of habit, scribbling it out almost immediately. 'Harry'. No, still not harsh enough. 'Potter,' he looped his cursive letters with a sense of edge.

     I think you'll be glad to know I didn't let the door hit me on the way out. I hope having the whole bed to yourself brings you bliss. That is what you wanted, after all, isn't it? No, that isn't big enough to be your ulterior motive. What I can't believe is you presumed my father to be Fylum LaSciou, the ministry's most wanted criminal; the copycat of Voldemort. I know my father didn't have the greatest track record in the past, but he's utterly mad now, completely bonkers. He doesn't have enough focus in him for that to be true. He was just a mere passenger on that train. It's a deadly mistake you made, Potter. You're just lucky he escaped death. I suppose that's why you've been so anxious, expecting the ministry to come at you any day now to escort you to Azkaban for using the killing curse. Don't worry, that won't be a problem because you didn't succeed. Love,

     No. Wrong word.

     Prayers of a reckoning, D. L. Malfoy

     He did his best to sign his last name as clear as possible for emphasis. He no longer had any intention to be Draco Lucius Potter. 'What stupid initials that would've been, anyway,' he thought to himself.

     "Quite the love-letter, you're writing," Lucius teased, startling Draco. He had been hovering over him for quite some time.

     "Because it's not a love letter," Draco persisted, his eyes squinting in anger at the thought. 

     Lucius clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. "You pretend to be sure, but you're not sure about it internally," he spoke as if he were negotiating, a tone in his voice that seemed off.

"I can assure you father, the only feelings I have towards H—" he caught himself. "—Potter are hatred and disgust."

Lucius grabbed ahold of the arms of his chair from behind, hovering over his shoulder. "Wonderful, because I say it's about time we take revenge," he hissed, that sinister grin once again apparent. It made Draco uneasy. His stomach felt queasy and his heart rate jump, the smile almost distracting from the words.

"Father... what would this revenge entail?" He asked, nervous but curious.

Lucius sneered. "I thought you'd never ask. Following Hammurabi's Code of an eye for an eye, I suppose we better review Mr. Potter's offenses before the jury," he drawled dramatically. "He broke your heart and tried to kill me. I say we turn the tables." His smirk grew evermore prominent. In a single swift motion, Lucius jerked away from the chair and waltzed around the room, pacing back and forth. The slightly-heeled soles left an empty echo dancing around the room, enough to tingle anyone's spine. 

Lucius snagged another piece of parchment from the shelf and smacked it against the desk. "I think you'd better write yourself a new letter." He uttered a low, grumbling laugh; maniacal in every sense of the word. The door slammed behind him, and with his absence, Draco felt himself floating in a void of his own thoughts.

     Love, he addressed, bile in the back of his throat. He hated it. He hated that word since this ordeal began.

     It's a shame that I left on such terms. I truly apologize that I overreacted how I did, I was just upset and confused. I see you had every right to believe what you did, and even though you were wrong, I'd like to forgive you. However, I'm not quite sure yet, I'd like to meet in person.

Shall we meet? I can arrange for tea here out in the M. Manor Garden. Tomorrow at four?

Oh, and one more thing, he wrote, a maliciously uneven grin splitting his face. Be a dear and bring my ring?

With Love, he signed, practically sick to his stomach with the term but acting at his father's wish anyway. Draco L. Potter

That name. That name. Sickening. Horrible. As his mind rambled off adjectives to describe the emotions stirring in his gut, he gained enough mental capacity to remind himself that he would do whatever it would take. After all, Har—no—Potter tried to kill his father.

     Bitter feelings all folded up into the sheet of parchement, Draco gently lifted the crimson candle burning beside him, tilting it so the wax dropped off onto the paper, rather resembling drops of blood. Setting it down, he slammed the Malfoy Manor seal onto the wax drippings, letting it cool and set before ripping it from the letter, leaving a single, calligraphic 'M'. 

     It was when a pale brown eagle owl landed on the window that Harry glanced up from his spot at the kitchen's island, a cup of stale coffee holding his gaze while his mind was distant. A single eyebrow cocked, he inched toward the feathered creature, gently tugging at the ribbon holding the letter to its leg. His index finger extended, he attempted to pet the owl's forehead but it had snapped at him, clamping its beak onto Harry's uppermost knuckle. He should've known better, Bubo had never liked him.

     It was then that he had read the letter, then that he had grown a smile, then that he plucked a pair of tweezers from the drawer of rubbish and did his best to pry Draco's ring from the floorboard. It was then.

     The clock's anxious hands urged forward, signaling 8:32 am. Its constant clicks had been driving Harry up-the-wall bonkers, but it was a good enough day he allowed himself to force the ticking from his head. Maybe it was Luna's motivating words yesterday, perhaps he just really liked the smell of his new body wash; either way, the smell of sharp mint had always been his favourite.

     Steaming droplets of water sliced at his scalp and back, washing away any bad vibes he had been holding onto these last few weeks. It seemed to be therapeutic, as it it were—

     Clunk.

Harry shrugged it off, it was probably nothing. The ice maker, perhaps. He returned to lathering up his hair in some intensively bubbly shampoo, scrubbing his scalp—

Clunk.

"What the hell?" he uttered to himself, leaving the shower running as he carefully stepped out onto the soft strands of the mat. In a single, quick motion, he snatched the towel from its hook and tied it around his waist, carefully treading the tile as not to make a noise.

Scanning his bathroom, he found nothing of weapon quality. His wand was all the way in the kitchen, and his toothbrush certainly couldn't pose a threat to anything more than a potential cavity. He unfolded his glasses and put them in their place resting on his nose, stealthily tiptoeing toward the door armed with the lid of the loo's tank.

Drops of shampoo and water dribbled onto the floor behind him, creating a trail to Harry's bedroom where he found himself flinging open the closet door, ready to strike, except nothing was there but his clothes.

Clunk.

"Holy shit," he squeaked in fear, whipping around to the source to see an eagle owl tapping rather aggressively at his window. He instinctively stumbled backwards, slipping on the wet floor and tumbling to the ground. "Damn," he grunted to himself, rubbing the crook of his back. Clutching the towel even tighter, Harry once again stood before the window. Opening the window he took the envelope from the bird and gave it a handful of seeds he kept along every windowsill.

     Resting temptingly between his fingers was the letter, giving it a light flip around to look at the seal. A calligraphic M, surrounded by an olive branch crest.

     Rather odd, he always found it, that the Malfoys of all people would have an olive branch on their stamp. They weren't exactly protesters for peace, or even mere promoters. Chaos was rather their style; chaos and superiority. Harry was only glad Draco broke tradition.

     Curiosity eating away at him, he ripped the envelope open, reading the letter to himself inside his mind. A few drops of shampoo hit the parchment and he quickly swept the hair from his face. 

     It wasn't long before he jumped back in the shower, doing his best to clean himself up as nice as he could.

His knuckles rapped firmly upon the door before him, awaiting greetings as he toyed with the gilded band carefully tucked in his pocket. He wore a proud smile, knowing he would woo his fiancé back. His hair had — with major difficulty — been straightened and tied back into what muggles called a 'manbun'. He was left with a few stray, scraggly hairs framing the crown of his forehead. He recalled a time when Draco had first insulted it, telling him to get the 'ridiculous dorsal fin' off his head or he'd hex it off, all while sporting the most pathetic pout Harry'd ever seen. However, with a significant amount of nagging, Draco finally admitted that he found it rather sexy, saying that it showed off his bone structure and it complemented his beard, or the short bit of one he had. He chuckled softly to himself, hope pouring out of his heart that he would be able to listen to Draco's false insults again.

Harry's eyes drifted downward as the door swung inward, revealing a house elf standing at just below a meter and a half. It bowed graciously and—

No. That's not how it really happened. Of every time Harry had been to the mansion, never once was he greeted by something other than an elf, which made for quite the awkward introduction when Draco answered the door and Harry had immediately stared at his nether regions. His cheeks turned a violent shade of maroon, the pigment popping from his caramel skin. He traced his eyes upward, his eyes locked with Draco's. He stuttered something, his words anything but audible.

Draco cocked a brow, leaning against the door frame at an angle that made Harry even more nervous, his hands stuffed confidently in his pockets. "Miss me that much?" He said with his signature crooked grin that trapped a snide personality within. Harry squeaked a 'no' or something of the sort, and Draco shook his head and uttered a chuckle, pinching the bridge of his nose. "It's alright. I waved off the elves since I wanted this to be a bit more—" he paused, the fingers on his right hand loosely floating and twisting in the air as if trying to pluck the word from the void of existence. "—personal." His tone, to a lovestruck Harry, held an innocent façade, yet venom dropped from his teeth with every syllable, malice gathering in the back of his throat.

     Harry paced the familiar wood floors, recognizing the clicking of Draco's shoes and the soft thud of his own. They had dinner with Narcissa often, so the cruelty of the manor had worn off over the years, although he wouldn't exactly call it home. Nevertheless, he trekked on with neutrality and followed Draco to the garden, a setting in which he was familiar with as well, notably for tea time.

     Harry dropped into the black wire chair across from the one Draco gracefully slid into in his signature cross legged position with one knee over the other. Harry had always pondered how graceful and careful Draco was, and it came naturally to him. It was a bold contrast to Harry's clumsiness and his striking movements.

     Harry slapped the envelope upon the glass table, notifying Draco that he was ready to get down to business. However, Draco plucked the envelope from the table and inspected it, his eyebrows knitting together and his lips twisting ever-so-slightly. It was an expression Harry recognized. Reading the daily prophet in the morning over a cup of coffee, studying Harry after he'd do something bizarre; it was utter concentration.

     "Did you cry over this?" Draco asked, the letter dangling from his index finger and thumb as if he were picking up something unsavory.

     "...Yes," Harry hesitated, yet snapped. Okay, so he didn't cry over the letter but he still cried over Draco, which was relative.

     Draco, still sporting his squished face, brought it closer to himself and sniffed it. "Then why does it smell like your shampoo?" Draco shrugged it off, wondering why he asked. He knew Harry was quirky and had taught himself over the years some things are better left unknown. "Anyway, I came to discuss our—" he plucked at his cuticles, "—arrangement." He spoke in a bitter tone, which left Harry confused. Although he could usually read Draco, he was left with absolutely no clues, no hints, no trail to follow. Was it bitterness? Hurt? Hatred? Even hopeful in a roundabout way? He studied him carefully and he watched as Draco's eyes flicked up, but not to him. Rather, directly above.

    "Yes, your arrangement," an all-too-familiar voice crowed as Harry felt a jab in his back. "Stupefy," the voice seethed, and he was frozen.

Harry could feel Lucius' warm breath on the name of his neck, the thin hairs prickling up on end. However, that was just about all he could feel. His body tingled of numbness, and his brain was left fuzzy and half-functioning as if he was on the verge of consciousness, which to be frank he was. Draco's face was unreadable; the monotone of all expressions. Whether it was Harry's limited mind or if it truly was just a blank expression he might never know, and that might be okay with him.

"Draco, my boy," Lucius drawled as he waltzed over toward him, draping his arms over Draco's shoulders as he leaned forward. "The time has come."

Draco shifted awkwardly, highly uncomfortable. He wasn't ready, and especially wasn't ready to off someone he had once loved. His mind flashed back to sixth year in the astronomy tower to the headmaster.

     His stomach lurched as he pulled himself up the stairs, his eyes twitching with purging tears. He ached for an escape.

     He could jump the ledge, casting a spell to catch himself before he hit the ground. He could run and run and run some more until he found he would find a muggle village. He could use that muggle stuff—hair dye, was it called? He could dye his hair an electric shade of teal. He could work a motel to get himself on his feet, since he picked up a thing or two from the elves.

     He could; but not for long. They'd find him no matter how hard he tried. He could run, but he couldn't hide.

     He scraped his fingernails along the midsection of his wand, the hawthorn straining his fingernails and chipping them from their manicured state into unpredictable daggers. His knuckles paled with his tight grasp as he paused behind the column at the top of the stairs. He collected his breath and peeked around, the silvery-white of Dumbledore's hair as his signal of clearance.

His Adam's apple bobbed as he gulped, flinching as he flicked his wand. "Expelliarmus," he bellowed, and with that, the elder wand flew from Dumbledore's hands.

After that, he had simply checked out. He didn't remember a thing until he saw bright light hit the headmaster; the fall, literal and metaphorical, in slow motion.

For the next several hours, Draco had felt a pit in his stomach, the purest form of guilt humanly possible. It wasn't until later that night that he had learned it was in fact Snape who killed Dumbledore. He had compartmentalized the moment so well he didn't know what was going on while it was physically happening, convincing himself he was a murderer. Instead, he was a coward. The title he could live with, though the reason why gave him second thoughts.

He had shrunken into the green velvet of the sofa. His shoulders tucked in and his head angled down, he did his best to become as invisible as possible, and to be frank it worked quite well. His mum and dad were seated elegantly beside him, champagne flutes floating from their fingers as their words drawled on in conversation with others, Draco left unnoticed as he had curled up. His sharp and ragged nails scratched at his knuckles, absentmindedly peeling the skin. It had become unconsciously habitual for him in moments of overwhelming stress. Narcissa always bandaged them properly to keep his hands properly manicured. Boy, would she have work to do tonight. 'Orderly hands are a sign of orderly people,' she would say as she would swipe the file along the tips of his fingernails. If that were the case, Draco was the least organized and collected person he knew, but his mum helped him create a façade.

Draco's view fluttered down to his hands, folded in his lap. Nonchalantly he toyed with his fingers, running his index finger over his opposing knuckles. Still to this day he had heavy skin over them, rigid scars that leave a sharp contrast to his pale complexion. His hands alone held power his morals could not comply with. Power of magic that couldn't be forgiven. His eyes flicked up to Harry's, an unreadable fire in his own to match the tears of betrayal and fear in his beloved's.

Beloved's.

What a word. He never imagined that one day that word could become synonymous with attempted murderer. Not only that, but the man who tried to murder his father.

Of course he had always had a rocky relationship with Lucius, but after he was released from Azkaban, even though they hadn't kept in touch, he still felt a sense of duty. He was released for a reason, and he held that to heart.

He rose from his chair, hovering forward and leaning down in front of Harry. He jabbed his wand into Harry's chest, right over his heart. Draco sneered, his brilliantly white teeth flashing threateningly.

His eyes flashed with an emotion Harry had yet to see, or ever had described. There was no way to begin to scrape the surface other than chaos. Pure and raw internalized warfare of anything and everything imaginable. Draco pressed the wand hard to Harry's chest, a sharp pain certain to be beckoned by the twisting of the wood. "Hammurabi," Draco whispered madly, reminding himself of his task. "An eye for an eye. An attempted life for an attempted life. A love for a lack of such," he rambled, mumbling under his breath.

In a tact of intimidation, he leaned forward, his hand resting on Harry's for balance, but something inside him snapped. Even with Harry stunned, the simple contact brought Draco back. His father's manipulation washed away, and he color rushed back to his cheeks. 

Manipulative. Lying. Deceitful. And most importantly? Heartless. He was protecting nothing but an utter piece of shit.

"Rennervate," he uttered in a voice low so his father wouldn't hear.

Harry snapped back to life, leaping from his chair and grasping his wand, waving it threateningly at Lucius.

"Do it. Don't hesitate," Draco yelled at Harry. And with that, green sparks shot from Harry's wand.

"Avada Kedavra!" Harry had hissed. Lucius had collapsed into nothing but dust in the atmosphere, and this time, for good.

Harry clung to Draco, tangled in his arms. Tears poured from his eyes and his cheeks quickly grew red and puffy, wailing into his chest.

Tracing his fingers through his hair, Draco hushed Harry, silent drops lining his jaw; an overwhelmed yet unremorseful sorrow.

"There we go," Draco hummed, straightening up Harry's tie. He drew him closer by the necktie, giving him a quick peck on the lips. "Your tie was always a bloody menace in school. You, the chosen one, parading around the school with your golden self and everyone fawning over you while I just wanted to smack you across the face with the tie that was practically falling off your neck."

Harry scoffed and swiped the glasses off his own face, snickering slightly as he cleaned his glasses with the hem of his shirt that had yet to be tucked into his trousers. "Everyone? If i can remember correctly I believe there were quite a few who tried to kill me, at the very least. It became an annual tradition on several teacher's calendars, and correct me if I'm wrong, but perhaps yours as well? I could fill a meter-long piece of parchment."

     "And I'm the drama queen," Draco rolled his eyes playfully, tucking stray hairs that framed Harry's face into the mess off hair that wasn't quite-so-properly gelled, but convincingly proper enough.

The slight chuckles drifted into a ringing silence, tension and anxiety hanging heavily in the air. Harry simply sighed, seemingly out of words. "It'll be a breeze," Draco cooed, tracing his index finger down Harry's temple, cupping his cheek. "Everything you did was for a reason. Surely they'll see through; they just have to go through the standards of a trial so it isn't favoritism," he assured him, his voice confident and full of energy.

Harry's eyes fell to Draco's feet and his lungs to the floor. Scratching the back of his neck, he offered a subtle nod.

     Harry sat in the uncomfortable wooden chair directly in the center of the room with eyes drilling into his soul from every direction. Draco leaned gently against the back of the chair from the side, draping his arm over Harry's opposite shoulder and patting him reassuringly. The Minister of Magic cleared his throat, striking his gavel to gain the attention of those in attendance. "We are here to bare witness to the trial of Mr. Harry J. Potter in defense of his use of..." he drawled, but soon his eyes welled with shock. "An unrighteous use of the Killing Curse."

Pricking his nose upward and squinting down upon the two men in the center, he sneered. "Mr. Draco L. Potter, would you please recite your claim as the witness to the event?"

Kicking upright from his place against the chair, he sauntered forward, the soles of his shoes clicking harshly against the tile. "Yes, Sir." He cleared his throat. "It was 4:32pm last Saturday, and I was sitting with my father—"

A woman of the jury piped up, her sharp features accentuated by the thin glasses that drooped over her nose. "Excuse me, your  
honor—" the words quickly rolled off her tongue in an insincere tone that seemed regular; well-practiced. "Your father? Your father is the victim?" Attaining the solid nod from Draco, she continued on. "And your husband is the murderer? Aren't you perhaps a little... unhinged from such events? Can we truly trust everything you say is a proper recollection of the event, not a twisted version your mind has supplied to pick sides?" She spilled, turning toward the Minister.

Another, a man on the opposite side from her, chimed in. "I agree, perhaps you don't fit the criteria for a witness," he announced, and soon the entire hall became filled with little mumblings of agreement.

Clanging the gavel, the Minister shouted. "HALT!" Almost instantaneously, the chatter seized. The crashing waves settles to a still pond in less than two seconds, and all eyes were turned to the minister. "Mr. Potter." His voice was stern and Harry's eyes grew large. "No, not you. The other one," he spoke with a sense of irritation and everyone's head shifted every so slightly to direct their attention to Draco. "You, Sir, are dismissed. Please find your place out in the corridor."

     Draco managed to drag himself across the room and out the doors, Harry left in his chair with his left leg bouncing rapidly.

     "Now, Mr. Potter. You denied your right to a lawyer; what is your defense?"

     Harry gulped, and stood from the chair. "Your honor, as you know, I'm the Head Auror for the Ministry. I have had a mission for months to capture the terrorist by the name of Fylum LaSciou. I've been tracking him for quite some time now, and I've been led to believe that LaSciou was Lucius Malfoy. I—"

     The minister bursted out into a violent laughter, viciously wheezing and flailing in all sorts of directions. "You mean to tell me—" he gasped "—you think that nutter is one of the most vicious criminals our world has seen yet?" His voice turned to ominous stone, sure and steady; calculated.

     "Yes, your honor," Harry dared. He bowed his head slightly. 

     "Bipolar, maybe, but a serial murderer? No bloody way." The Minister shook his head for further effect. "However, you are quite an accredited individual, Head Auror and all. You have saved this world many times, but I'm afraid we cannot let this slide. Instead of an Azkaban sentence, you are to be banished from the Wizarding World. May I please see your wand?" 

     Harry gulped. That had to be it. There was nothing else he could do. When he was but a child, he lived as a muggle. He could see himself now, curled up into the cupboard under the stairs at No. 4, Privet Drive; isolated from everything he loved that he had taken for granted.

     An assistant dared approach him with an outstretched hand. His heart clenching, he pressed his wand into the other's hand.

     Beyond that it seemed to be a blur, and all that echoed his mind was the deafening snap.

     Harry was left slouched onto Draco's shoulder, sitting on the curb outside. The sharp wind cut through the buildings and whistled last them, but Harry didn't notice. He didn't notice much, for he was absolutely numb. He couldn't feel a thing, yet his face twisted and contorted into ugly wrinkles and a deep frown, Draco sitting beside him with his lips pressed to Harry's forehead. "I know," he'd whisper routinely, his hoarse voice muffled by Harry's mop of hair.

     "On our wedding day, I vowed to you that I was forever to be your absolute equal," he suggested in a hushed tone.

     Harry's head jerked up so his gaze could meet Draco's, fearful for his next move. "No, Draco. Don't do this," he warned.

     It was too late. In one swift motion, Draco had retrieved his wand and snapped it, tossing it into the busy road of traffic.

     Harry leaped into the street in an impulsive attempt to catch it and save it, not even thinking about the oncoming cars or the fact Draco could get another one, just stuck on that one little chunk of wood. He dove. 

     Hoooonk. Thud. Squeal.

     It had come to a point where those were the quietest noises of the current moment, for Draco's sobs grew louder and more painful than anything. "Harry!" he shouted.

     Traffic had rolled to a stop and Draco crashed down to the ground beside Harry, holding his limp body to his chest. 'Blunt force trauma' echoed through Draco's busy mind. Harry always made him watch those stupid crime shows on the telly.

     He pawed at Harry, clutching at his button-down and messy locks. "No!" he shrieked. "No! NO! NO!" He desperately pressed his lips to Harry's forehead. "Wake up, darling! It's time to wake up, love!"

     Needless to say, Harry's eyes didn't open. They never saw the flashing lights that drew nearer and nearer, his ears never heard the shrieking of sirens and the sobs of his husband.


End file.
